


the hole

by newrules



Series: healing [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts, in which the reader is kent, vague reference to Jack's overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newrules/pseuds/newrules
Summary: all you want is that godforsaken hole filled, and what the hell are you supposed to do if he doesn’t want to fill it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [brooke's](https://onethousandroaches.tumblr.com) second-person jack and bitty fics. give her a read, seriously.

When you hear the news, you feel a knife go in.

Except, no, it’s more like a thousand knives all at once, cutting an outline in you in the exact shape of him. The pain is excruciating, but you have no choice but to smile through it and take your seat in the arena.

Without him there, you’re naturally the first one to go. As you reclaim your seat, now draped in black and white, you do your best to suppress the shaking. In a few days you’ll be 2,000 miles from home with the weight of your legacy on your shoulders, and your biggest supporter will be… somewhere, hopefully, but not there. It’s scary.

If you start to tremble a little, well, you just hope the cameras don’t notice.

They do.

The knives finish their incisions the next day when he kicks you out of the hospital room. They cut deep and then retract, leaving a big, gaping hole in you.

The hole is the exact shape and size of Jack Zimmermann.

Bob and Alicia hardly have time to hurt for you when they’re too busy hurting for him. You understand, but it hurts anyway.

 

* * *

 

You wish you could delete the photo from existence.

It’s on every news segment about you, every time, without fail. Sometimes they mention Zimms, sometimes they only talk about the Memorial Cup you’re holding together. Either way, you hate it. For reminding you of that hole, and just how sharp its outline still is, six months later. You might be well on your way to a Calder Trophy, but the glory doesn’t fill the hole like you hoped it would.

The reporter asks about your home life.

You don’t tell her about the hole.

You don’t tell her how alone you feel in that empty, clinical apartment. You don’t tell her how the lights of Las Vegas from your penthouse don’t gleam with potential and stardom like you always thought they would, but instead buzz with a tinny, dull exhaustion. You don’t tell her how you keep the shades closed because you got sick of looking out over the city you’re supposed to be carrying to glory on your shoulders and feeling nothing but fucking empty. You don’t tell her that you have no pride for this shallow place, not when a piece of you even bigger than yourself is across the continent.

What you do tell her is a joke about how your cat is your best friend. Even still, you don’t tell her that Kit didn’t fill the hole like you hoped she would.

You wish desperately for the hole to change its shape. Anything else, something that you can stuff it with.

It doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

You realized, after a year, that there was no fixing the hole. There was only filling it, and Zimms was the only person who could do that.

So here you are in Massachusetts, pulling into the one parking spot you could find on all of Jason Street.

You’re here to fill the hole.

You hesitate before getting out of the car. You could have so much if it goes right, but if not, well. Who’s to say it won’t slice a new hole right out of you? You worry a moment, your hand on the ignition. But then you feel the pangs, and you’re out of your seat.

The party is loud, but you spot him soon enough. The hole is stinging now, and you do your best to make yourself available to the partygoers for selfies and all that bullshit, and you get roped into a flip cup game against the small manager girl. She obliterates you. You can’t bring yourself to care.

The voices and music echo around in the emptiness in your chest. They brew a concoction that bubbles up as anger. You know you need to keep it in.

You make it as far as Zimms’ bedroom before you can’t anymore and the anger bursts out of you. He isn’t making it easy and for Christ’s sake all you want is that godforsaken hole filled, and what the hell are you supposed to do if he doesn’t want to fill it? Go on living with it forever?

You think you’d rather just stop living.

Damn. At least you know now that you were right to be scared on draft day. Because what is there to be afraid of if not this?

You don’t know why you start spouting off about his team or threatening him. Maybe it’s some half-hearted attempt to boost your own confidence. Maybe it’s a cover to hide your vulnerability.

You’re not sure.

But you regret it.

The hole feels bigger than it’s ever felt that night on the long red-eye flight back to Nevada. You wish you could remember some part of yourself from back in the good days, from Rimouski, from Montréal, from New York. You know that you _should_ be your own person, you know that you _shouldn’t_ need Zimms or anyone else to feel whole. You’ve heard as much. So why doesn’t it feel true? Why is the hole still fucking there?

You have so many questions.

The night sky remains black over the airplane wing, devoid of answers.

 

* * *

 

When Baldy sustains a career-ending injury and the 25-year-old guy they drafted a couple years ago is called up to the Aces, it doesn’t register as much more than another roster reshuffling. Two weeks later, though, when Jeff is suddenly on the second line, you take notice. He’s a talented forward and a big asset to your team.

The C may not have filled the hole when they stitched it to your jersey two years ago, but you take it seriously.

So, when you notice that Jeff seems a little isolated from the rest of the team, you worry a little.

You may not care for the Strip, but it has something for everyone, so you make the drive down there anyway. You hope that Jeff having a nice night of fun out with the guys will help him bond and that will translate to meshing better on the ice. It seems logical enough. Then again, you don’t really trust your logic much anymore these days.

Regardless, you try it. It’s fun, really. Jeff is a funny guy, and he really does fit in great with the team dynamic. But he still seems distant, sometimes. You wonder what’s going on inside his head.

Because you were distant, too. Are distant, still, at times.

At least now you’re the captain so no one tries to help. They never could understand.

 

* * *

 

You used to like Providence. It’s quaint, and lively, and full of spirit.

Too bad every inch of it is now plastered with posters of Zimms. A haunting reminder everywhere you go of that motherfucking hole.

You’re sick to death of it.

When you see him on the ice, you feel the pangs. Ghostly little stings from the knives that sliced it out of you. It’s distant now in your memory but still clear, still sharp.

It’s familiar now, though. That much has changed. You’re used to it.

When you accidentally take out the net and the Falconers’ goalie when you score, you question whether that’s true for a moment, because this particular pang _really hurts_.

And then you realize it wasn’t the hole this time. Rather, the bulky Russian forward has grabbed you by the neck, with his teammates spouting off about “typical fucking Aces hockey.” He looks about ready to snap you in two.

And then he sees something in your eyes, and whatever it is, his glower softens. For once, you’re grateful for your own sorry state.

 

* * *

 

Jeff understands, you discover.

It happens one day as you’re driving him to practice. His car is getting worked on, he tells you, and he lives on the way, so you’re happy to take him.

You’re making a left on Tropicana when he says it.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

His tone betrays his vulnerability, the same vulnerability you’ve spent your whole life covering up in yourself. You don’t know why you feel so comfortable pulling over in an empty parking lot and saying yes.

And then Jeff is talking. He’s telling you about how he lost someone important to him, and how he’d kept it in for so long, and how he isn’t totally sure but he thinks maybe you did too, because he sees the look in your eyes sometimes when you zone out at practice and when you’re out with the guys, and oh god stop him if he’s way off or something but he just thought maybe you’d underst-

You put a hand on his shoulder.

And then you put your head on his shoulder.

And then you’re crying.

And then his arms are around you, pulling you close, and you feel something you never thought you’d feel. You feel the edges of the hole melting away.

Your mind flashes back to all the nights out with Jeff and the guys, and think of how you never thought about Zimms any of those nights, how you were able to slip into a comfortable feeling. Maybe it wasn’t quite happiness, but it was pushing you there. And the city lights you used to detest don’t feel so hollow and dead anymore. You think of the time you went to the Clippers game together and chirped the hell out of each other about which players followed you on Twitter, and how natural it felt. You think of the time you and Jeff took goofy pictures by the Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign, and you realize you’ve started to feel something resembling pride for this place that once felt like exile.

It’s not that Jeff himself filled the hole, you realized. But he helped you do it yourself.

You lock eyes with Jeff, your tears gone from strangled and melancholy to happy.

It’s a new feeling. You embrace it.

Jeff leans forward tentatively. The two of you haven’t discussed this. But you don’t need to, it seems.

You lean forward and meet him halfway, and you’re kissing, and you’re kissing, and you’re kissing, and it feels like it might never end.

You certainly wouldn’t mind if it didn’t.

And when it does, and your tears are dry, and you’re gazing longingly into Jeff’s soft and gleaming eyes which are looking back at you with equal longing, you feel so whole.

You can’t even feel where the hole used to be.

You smile.

You could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe kent parson invented depression and feelings of emptiness
> 
> thanks for reading! comments are always welcome and loved! you can also find me on tumblr at @[kentparson](http://kentparson.tumblr.com/).


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